


Do No Harm (Take No Shit)

by Frea_O



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Exes, F/F, Organized Crime, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 23:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13891659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frea_O/pseuds/Frea_O
Summary: A botched bank robbery makes Laurel Lance realize she’s #1 on a very peculiar list. This might not actually be a bad thing.





	Do No Harm (Take No Shit)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the writing-prompts tumblr: _During a bank robbery you’re surprised when the criminals seem to recognize you and retreat in fear. Only later do you learn that your high school sweet-heart now runs a global crime syndicate and has you placed on a “No Harm” list. You decide to pay them a visit after all these years._
> 
> Thanks to Kaleidoscopes-and-Carousels, gnimaerd, and fandomnerd for being the worst enablers.

For a woman who’s supposed to let the cops do all the dirty work, Laurel Lance sure ends up in a lot of sticky situations. Or at least that’s what her father says.

He might have a point, she realizes now when she opens her eyes and the world is completely dark. She has half a second of awareness to wonder why that is before the pain floods in between her eyes, throbbing red hot in the back of the head.

Somebody must have knocked her out. And the oppressive feeling of cloth across her face can only be a blindfold.

Great.

Laurel’s body aches as her brain susses out every detail possible: hard ground underneath her, feels like marble. Still in the bank, check. Blindfold covering her eyes? Not dead, check. Sounds of rustling in the distance, two muted voices? One of them must have hit her and—she feels her shoulders strain and flexes her wrists to be sure—tied her up. Fear shoots through her, icy and burning at once, but she corrals her reserve behind a steel wall of patience.

If she survives this, her father’s lecture about bringing backup to check on tips left by her informants is going to span hours. Possibly days.

She tenses up automatically when she hears footsteps approach, but quickly feigns sleep. What do they want with her? Why did they tie her up?

And what the hell did they hit her with? Her head is _splitting_.

Apparently she’s not the only one wondering, for a mutter emerges somewhere to her left, “What do we do with her?”

“Memory sauce,” another voice answers. “Check her ID first. Do you see a medical bracelet anywhere? Boss says we’re not supposed to use it on anybody with diabetes.”

Diabetes? Memory sauce? What? Laurel’s brain whirls with a thousand possibilities. So many of her witnesses lately have been claiming strange bouts of temporary amnesia. Laurel was sure they were faking it, but—memory sauce? That could explain so many things.

She hears the unmistakable zip of her own purse opening, and regrets even bringing that along. Attempting to run an errand at the bank on top of her amateur detective work was such a bad call. Hopefully they’ll just take the cash and leave her credit cards alone.

“Oh shit,” the first person says.

“What? What is it?”

“Shit, this is Laurel Lance. We just knocked out Laurel fucking Lance!”

“Number one on the Do Not Harm List Laurel Lance?” The second voice carries a distinct note of panic. Cursing so sharp that Laurel almost flinches follows. “Oh god, Boss is going to kill us. We’re dead. We’re doomed.”

“We didn’t know. Um. What do we do? She’s still out, as far as I can tell.”

“Check her pupils? I don’t know. Shit, we didn’t do permanent brain damage, did we? We need to get her to a hospital.” What the hell is even happening? Do Not Harm List? Why do these criminals know her name? It takes everything not to flinch when she feels hands desperately tugging at the ropes tying her wrists together. 

“Should we give her the memory sauce?” Voice Two asks.

“What if she has diabetes?”

“She doesn’t look like she has diabetes.”

“You can’t tell from looking, dipshit. Grab her things. We’ll leave her at the hospital. Um, we’ll say it was a car accident. Maybe then Boss won’t use the Loud Voice.”

The blindfold is yanked off so suddenly that Laurel doesn’t have time to pretend to remain unconscious. She blinks in shock at two masked faces. They might be fully covered, but she can read panic loud and clear. They gape at her. 

“Shit, she’s awake!” 

And they book it. 

Two figures in masks, one with a black duffel over a shoulder, sprint away from Laurel like she’s holding a gun at them and not laying in the middle of the bank lobby, unarmed and very, very confused. When she instinctively tries to give chase, her vision wobbles.

She’s still there, blood dribbling down her temple from the hit to the head, when the police arrive. 

* * *

Laurel might be reckless, but she’s not stupid. Nor is she particularly keen on having one of her father’s beat cops following her around after her stunt with the informant at the bank. Since she’s also not interested in waiting for the police to get to the bottom of the missing safety deposit box contents, she slips away at first opportunity and heads for the Glades. If somebody has her on a Do No Harm list, there’s only two possibilities. They either want her untouched because she works for the District Attorney, or there’s a personal connection.

And since the mere sight of her was enough to scare the sense out of two goons, she’s betting it’s the latter. Which winnows down the list some.

The club is quiet when she knocks at the front door and says hello to the bouncer on duty. After a quick chat—he always has baby pictures, and his kids are the cutest—she’s directed inside. “Is he here?” she asks the brunette stocking bottles behind the bar.

“Oh, hi, Laurel, it’s been ages. Yes, I’m good, too, thanks for asking, and the haircut is new. Oh, I love it, too,” Thea Queen says as she turns around.

“Hi, Speedy,” she says with a laugh, giving her friend a genuine hug. “Sorry. Working on a case.”

“Gumshoe Lance, reporting in? What’s he done now?”

“Probably nothing,” Laurel says, not sure if that’s a lie or not.

“Well, he’s upstairs if you want to yell at him.”

“We’re completely amicable these days,” Laurel says, but she’s already trotting over to the stairs. 

Thea’s snort follows her.

Fair, Laurel decides. “All right,” she calls over her shoulder. “Mostly amicable! And your haircut _is_ cute.”

Whatever their amicability level is, Oliver still opens the door to his office right away when she knocks. And he gives her a hug. “Heard about the bump on the head,” he says. 

“Luckily it’s still the hardest thing on the planet,” Laurel says. She waves away his offer of seltzer water, and takes a seat across from him at his desk, studying the well-cut suit and the easy way he lounges. He’s always had the rich veneer to hide things. It took far too long for her to realize that veneer wasn’t hiding much that she liked, for all that they do get along now. “That’s actually why I’m here.”

“I didn’t rob the bank,” Oliver said.

Laurel merely raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t think you did. Did you hire somebody to do it instead?”

“No. I left that life behind. Besides, bank robberies were never my thing.”

He’d always preferred doing what the mob expected, and little more. And to be fair to him—something Laurel has to force herself to do—he’s a better alternative to anybody else the mob might have sent. At least he gives a damn about this town, and about Thea.

“Why are you asking?” Oliver says, continuing to lounge in his chair. “What’d you see at that bank, Laurel?”

“It wasn’t so much what I saw as what I heard.”

“And you don’t feel like sharing with your criminal ex?”

Laurel hesitates. It’s the “ex” part of the equation that makes her hesitant to bring it up at all. “Somebody’s got me on a list.”

Oliver’s eyes sharpen. “Somebody’s out to get you?”

“The opposite. Somewhere there’s a Do Not Harm list and I’m the first entry. Is that you, Oliver? Please tell me you’re not still carrying some kind of weird torch for me, I’ve had a really bad week.”

Oliver actually throws his head back and laughs. “We agreed to be friends,” he said. “I’ve kept to my side of the bargain. No weird torch. Maybe this list is just a common sense list. Your dad’s got a lot of pull in the SCPD.”

Not enough pull to make full grown criminals practically wet themselves. “Maybe.”

“You don’t think that’s it,” Oliver says, and she hates that he can still read her sometimes.

“They were running scared. They kept bringing up a boss, but they didn’t say who it was. Whoever it is must be an actual tyrant.”

Oliver goes quiet for minute. 

“What is it?” Laurel says.

“Thinking about a promise I made to someone, once.” He raps his knuckles on the desk, then eyes her up and down. “You know what? It’s been too quiet in this town lately. Maybe we all need some fun.”

“Apart from the random bouts of amnesia and high tech bank robberies, I haven’t heard a peep,” Laurel says dryly, as what the hell is he even talking about?

Oliver tilts his head, an acknowledgement of a direct hit, and produces a small notepad, scribbling a couple lines. She can’t decipher his small smile as he holds the paper across the desk. “Go here. I think it’ll answer a few of your questions.”

Laurel recognizes the address as being not too far away, closer to the docks on the other side of the jetty. Not exactly the nicest part of town. “What?” she asks, unable to hold in the sarcasm. “No warning for me not to go alone?”

“I have a feeling you’ll be perfectly safe. Happy hunting.” And with that, he walks her to the door.

* * *

Her habit of ignoring advice she should take and taking advice she should ignore almost leads Laurel to disregarding Oliver’s words and picking up Sara to come along. But Sara’s out to town again, and she’s still got at least twenty minutes before he dad calls and chews her out for ditching the rookie. Laurel takes advantage of it and parks her hybrid right in front of the address, bold as she pleases.

It’s a warehouse. Why would it be anything else? The Glades have so many empty warehouses that it’s no wonder criminals haven’t set up camp in every single one of them. Unfortunately, the outside of this one tells Laurel absolutely nothing about the criminal residing inside. Somebody Oliver knows. Somebody who has a reason for her not to be harmed ever. Somebody terrifying.

She picks over the broken sidewalk in her stilettos and tests the front door. Unlocked. With a tiny shrug, purse on one arm, she pushes the door open.

Inside, some sort of front office awaits. Apparently this used to be a delivery hub for a company that’s long gone under. But it’s clean and the lights are on. A fancy computer sits on top of the front of the desk. The burly man standing behind it gives her a wide-eyed look. 

She squints back, but he’s not the same build as either of the men that clocked her, blindfolded her, and tied her up at the bank.

“I’m here to see your boss,” she says politely. No way in a million years will that work, she knows.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that—”

“Thought so,” Laurel says, and turns to walk away. Not outside, but deeper into the warehouse. The office guard mutters a curse under his breath, his eyes growing even wider, and scrambles to stand in her way.

She raises her eyebrows at him. “I’m here to see your boss,” she said again. “If I have to go through you to do so, I won’t hesitate.”

“Please don’t,” the guard says.

“If I’m correct in my assumptions, you’re under strict orders not to hurt me. So why don’t I spare you the trouble of navigating that conundrum? You step aside, I go in. I’ll even tell your boss I threatened you. Deal?”

“That wouldn’t work,” the guard says. “She’s got eyes and ears all over this place, ma’am.”

She? Laurel tilts her head. “She can hear me now?”

“If she’s paying attention, yes, ma’am, she can.”

“Excellent. She’ll know I’m coming and if she has a problem, she can tell me so herself.” She nudges the guard to the side, wondering exactly how terrifying this woman must be that a full grown man would flinch away from her. Her heels click as she steps inside the warehouse, which mostly sits empty. A catwalk around the second story in the open floor plan shows a group of offices that way, so Laurel trots up the stairs with a confidence she definitely doesn’t feel.

The first couple of offices she pass hold people typing away at computers in flannel shirts and skinny jeans. Nerds. Not exactly the type she would expect to see at a criminal headquarters—for this place must be criminal, honestly. They look up at her and do a lot of double-takes, which makes the space between her shoulder blades feel tight with nerves.

None of them scramble out to get in her way like the front door guard. Though a few do gawk and whisper at their neighbors.

She climbs the steps to the third floor, which has an office that oversees the entire warehouse. Somebody sure has a high opinion of herself. Out of courtesy, she knocks once on the door before she pushes it open and steps inside.

She notices the computer servers first, as they’re huge and take up the entire wall of an office, all the brightly colored cables neatly lined up. Her eyes fall on the table in the middle of the giant office, right between the door and the desk. One of Starling City First Bank’s safety deposit boxes sits open in the middle of it, papers and computer parts strewn about. There’s one mystery solved, Laurel thinks, and finally raises her eyes to look across the room to the woman sitting behind the desk, typing away furiously at a computer, with a licorice stick dangling forgotten from the side of her mouth.

It’s been years and years, nearly a decade, and the sight still punches through Laurel like a tidal wave. 

Her fist, still on the doorknob, clenches tightly as a single look at the woman drags her right back to a place she locked away. A decade ago. Secret looks. Holding hands underneath the desk. Hiding out in the home ec classroom during fifth period. She looks around and takes it all in to ground herself. All at once, everything begins to make sense. Oliver’s surety that she would be safe, his private amusement. The high tech crimes happening all over Starling City, so cleanly done that the police have been after the criminal ring for months. Laurel’s only known one person with that level of skill.

And it turns out Oliver Queen is not her only criminal ex. Apparently her high school sweetheart runs a crime empire.

What are the odds?

“One second,” Felicity Smoak says in an absent voice, chewing on the licorice as she types. “Just dealing with a pesky firewall and—”

She looks up and goes completely still, her face a picture of shock. The air in the office seems to freeze along with her, so that it’s only the two of them, Laurel in the doorway, Felicity at the desk, and the ever-present hum of the servers.

“L-Laurel,” Felicity says, a decade older and even more stunning without the braces and the goth makeup. “W-what are—what are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“Somebody,” Laurel says with a great deal more confidence than she feels as she closes the door behind her, “has put me on a Do Not Harm list. I thought it might be time for me to pay you a visit.”

Felicity lets out an audible gulp as Laurel takes a seat across the desk and crosses one leg over the other.

“So,” Laurel says. “What’s new?”

**Author's Note:**

> Memory Sauce might be the stupidest thing I've ever come up with, and I'm proud of that.


End file.
